Heartbreak Warfare
by IHadBadDays
Summary: In which John's relationships fail and Sherlock doesn't understand. Very much a WIP. Rated M for future content. I do not own the characters, they're taken from the fabulous BBC Sherlock. It's gonna get rude, I warn you now. :
1. Chapter 1

**Heartbreak Warfare**

Sherlock is about to march into the living room and demand intellectual stimulation before he kills someone himself just for something to do, but he stops in the doorway at the sight that awaits him. John is sitting on his chair – nothing unusual there. There's a cup of tea (cold, Sherlock thinks, and for once he can't deduce why) – again, hardly an unusual occurrence in John's routine. But he is sitting with his head in his hands and Sherlock isn't sure, but there is a telling redness to John's eyes that suggest he's been crying.

He's never actually seen John upset. Happy, yes, and annoyed – well, more times a day than he can count, usually at him. But dejected as he is now, never. He's clearly visible from the doorway and he knows John will have spotted him in his peripheral vision, so he can't avoid the inevitable disaster that is his usual style when faced with anything resembling emotion. He knows he's got to say something, but what –

"She broke up with me, Sherlock." John says, sounding unnecessarily loud in the completely still room. His face crumples and Sherlock feels a twitch of annoyance. His latest girlfriend – Alice, he reminded himself, not that it mattered now anyway – had been around much longer than the previous ones; in fact, over a year. Sherlock had taken an instant dislike to her as soon as he'd overheard her whisper to John, all coquettish giggles and smiles, "He doesn't seem like someone _you'd_ be friends with," and she rarely came to the flat. John had spent many nights at hers, coming home rumpled and gritty-eyed the day after with a smirk on his face that Sherlock finds insufferable. And if Sherlock wasn't surprised it hadn't lasted (they never seemed to, John's relationships), he was surprised to see John so openly upset by it.

He's uncomfortable. Reassurance has never been his strong point and he supposes that saying he was pleased wouldn't help at all, so he removes John's mug of tea and tips in down the sink, watching the milky beige normality of it wash away. The kettle begins to bubble quietly moments later and he still hasn't broken the silence as he sets another cup of tea down beside John. _That's what people do, make tea in times of crisis_, he thought rapidly, as he scanned his brain for anything that might be useful in this situation.

"Why?" Sherlock says, interested as always in the facts of a situation; but he says it as gently as he knows how, acutely aware that John looks sadder than he's ever seen anyone.

Oddly, this question draws a flicker in John's gaze, avoidance and a furtiveness he doesn't normally display. But he answers anyway, in a hollow voice, "It _just isn't working_. The same old thing."

_Poor excuse for 'I'm sick of you'_, Sherlock thinks with a mixture of disdain and anger on John's behalf. "Oh." he offers. "There'll be other people. Girls." he adds lamely, unable to bring himself to utter "Plenty more fish in the sea", but sure the sentiment applies to nobody more accurately than John Watson. John shoots him a look of pure vitriol shot through with despair.

"That isn't the point!" he says, hotly, sounding uncomfortably close to tears. Sherlock flinches slightly at the raised tone and realises he has no idea what the point is. John has broken up with yet another woman who is dull, inferior to him and vacuous; Sherlock allows for the fickle hearts of ordinary people and yet still fails to see why John's should be breaking so obviously in front of him.

"I don't pretend to understand these affairs of the heart - ", he blusters, scrambling internally for something to say that will help, because the sight of John quite so crushed makes him feel uncomfortably like a weight is resting on his own chest. But John's eyes burn into his own, and then he spits, "No, you don't. At all." and storms out leaving the weight pressing down, Sherlock alone in the flat.

He doesn't mean to pry, honestly. But the piece of paper John has left on the table, crumpled in a way that makes it look like it's been carried in somebody's hand – John's hand – seems to Sherlock as though it could be a clue as to how to help John. The handwriting must be Alice's, a bold, round hand that looks too cheerful for the contents. He settles into a chair with John's tea and reads.

_Dear John, _

_I'm sorry to write you a letter but I don't know if I could say this to your face. _("Coward." he sniffs, taking a mouthful of tea.) _I love you, really, but this isn't what I thought it was going to be, I'm not as happy as I thought. You have one great love in your life _("Sentimental twaddle,")_ and I'm not yours, John. I've tried to ignore the feeling that your mind is somewhere else half the time and I've tried not to take it personally when you give me crap last-minute excuses not to see me, but it's obvious to me that, even if you haven't realised, you're in love with somebody else. I'd say you know who I mean but I don't think you have actually realised. Don't ring me for a bit, I need to get my head round everything and I think you'll find you have a lot to come to terms with._

_Be happy, _

_Alice_

_x_

Sherlock sits in silence but his brain kicks into gear, Alice's words making little sense to him. John's relationships were generally short-lived, yes, but he is nothing if not a man of morals and Sherlock is sure the idea of infidelity – emotional or physical – would be unacceptable to him. John would never stay in a relationship with someone if he had feelings for someone else – no, Sherlock notes with amusement, he'd simply end it and start another immediately, as he'd seen him do countless times. So _who_, then, was this person John was supposedly in love with? He hadn't been seeing anyone else – Sherlock would have observed it immediately, infidelity was so absurdly telling on a person – nor so much as mentioned anybody's name. He could ask, but thinks it might earn him a right hook for reading the letter and John has surprising strength for someone so short. He vows to observe John for signs and is recalling in his mind exactly where the letter was lying so that he can replace it perfectly when the door slams and John comes in, soaked from the rain and a look of horror on his face.

"My letter – you didn't?" he says, looking crestfallen. Sherlock looks at it as though it has just appeared in his hand, feigning surprise. "Oh. I, well I thought I'd see what it was, just a piece of paper lying around..." he trailed off, John's face suggesting that this ruse wasn't working.

"Oh, alright." He rolls his eyes. "I read it, but honestly I'm not _bothered_ about your schoolboy crushes, I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help." He says the last part defensively, and he is surprised when John fails to explode in anger. Instead, he smiles sadly and shakes his head with what looks like wonder.

"Are you?" Sherlock asks, curious. John frowns, warily.

"Am I what?"

"In love with someone else? I'm sure I'd have noticed you mooning over somebody. And if you're not with Alice, you're with me. Which you're not lying about, because I'd know. So you can't have been seeing someone." He reasons this, ideas occurring to him as he speaks and becoming more confused. John takes three strides, snatches the letter and stuffs it in a pocket, his face twisted with an emotion Sherlock doesn't have the words for.

"No. I'm not _in love_ with anybody else. She's wrong." he replies, and Sherlock thinks, as he hears John's heavy footsteps leading up the stairs, that he didn't sound sure.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days are filled with the kind of simmering silence that preludes a explosion, stretched out over long hours until time begins to stand still for Sherlock. John doesn't look him in the eye when he makes his morning coffee, nor does he put the right amount of sugar in Sherlock's cup, and Sherlock begins to suspect something is very wrong.

"I take two sugars." Sherlock says, precisely and clearly, looking at his cup as though it is poisonous. John still doesn't look at him, merely flicks the page of the newspaper and says, sounding disinterested, "Must have forgotten."

"You have lived here for nearly three years. You make coffee every morning. Are you suffering from amnesia?" Sherlock persists, suspecting John hasn't forgotten at all. Although why John would purposely pretend to have done so is beyond him, he intends to find out. John finally raises his eyes, quickly, and shrugs, casually.

"Sorry."

And with these words he leaves for the rest of the day.

Sherlock briefly considers asking Mycroft to have him shadowed and then decides against it – not worth the questions he'd ask or wrongly-made assumptions he'd come to for what could be a trip to the surgery to catch up on some paperwork. Still, John has been behaving very oddly since his break-up with Alice; evasive, lost in thought with a frowning, bemused concentration that Sherlock normally quite enjoys watching. Not the usual symptoms of heartbreak; he knows, he's spent hours online reading drivel about being unable to eat and people sobbing over lost loves, and John seems ... lost himself. Not mourning a loss.

_Maybe, _Sherlock thinks to himself, willing his brain to empathise with the typical human mind, a task he finds exhausting, _he's thinking about this person Alice thinks he's in love with. _And it seems plausible, but John has neither exhibited even the merest shred of evidence to suggest he loves anything except awkward silence nor mentioned, since he discovered Sherlock had read his letter, anything to do with the matter. _That's the thing with other people_, he mused idly, _they're so easy to read when they have one of their ridiculous obsessions with other people._ John especially; he was all grins and tired eyes and checking his phone more often than normal, ironing his shirts to a degree of precision that even the most fastidious military precision couldn't live up to. Sherlock found it all hilarious, and hilarious was not something that John Watson could be described as in recent days.

He waits for four hours and then, exhausted by three consecutive days of no sleep, listening keenly to John's breathing, his muttered sleep-talking, for clues to this new puzzle, Sherlock falls into a fitful sleep where snatches of dreams turn into nightmares and John's face stares accusingly at him. He is only woken by the sound of John returning – evening, he notes, the light falling differently in the room and a coolness descending upon the house. John nods and sits heavily in his chair, as though resigning himself to something.

Sherlock feels like he should take this rare moment of communication to probe further but John looks like a man waiting for a firing line, so he tries for casual instead. "Been anywhere nice?" he offers, realising instantly that it sounds so unlike something he would say that John would probably snort and refuse to reply, suspecting he was up to something.

To his surprise, John shuts his eyes as though pained by the questions, and answers quietly, "I went back to my therapist."

Oh. That's interesting. John visiting his therapist for the first time in – Sherlock counts quickly, a mental calendar appearing efficiently in his head – two years and eleven months. He previously had dismissed it as pointless and a waste of time; what was so terrible that John felt the need to bare his soul to a professional who cared for only the precisely allotted time?

"Because of Alice?" Sherlock says slowly, feeling as though he was grasping around in the dark. John's frowned deepened, the mention of her name clearly not the desired topic of conversation.

"Sort of." John said, and then Sherlock could have sworn at that second, he saw metal shutters slide across John's eyes as his facial expression changed completely. The conversation was, for now, over.

But John's nightmares that night are different; there's no shouted orders from somewhere distant in John's mental geography, no begging for back up or quiet requests to _please don't die, not this, anything except this_. Instead he murmurs a quiet invective, like a mantra.

_She's wrong, she's wrong, she's wrong. I don't. She's wrong._


	3. Chapter 3

It is pure, giddying chance that Sherlock sees Alice as he is leaving an antique shop in Notting Hill, having been researching a wingbacked chair for a case. She is walking, head bowed against the rain, probably towards the tube station. He has forgotten what she does for a living – deleted, too dull – but he recalls vaguely that it was in this area, so she is probably heading home.

He's just calculating how quickly he'd have to cross the street in order to avoid an awkward greeting when she lifts her face and looks directly at him. Rearranging his features from _oh God how dull_ to civil, he nods. "Oh, hello." he says shortly, not sure what else to add. How are you? But she clearly isn't doing very well, her features pale from lack of sleep and her shopping bag with a microwave meal for one advertising her misery to every passing commuter.

She stares sadly at him and says, simply, "Go away."

She bows her head again and walks away, leaving Sherlock standing pointlessly on the street. A childish turn of phrase, _go away_, but said with no anger – Sherlock supposed he reminded her of John or something equally pedestrian. He dismisses it, then, until he is resentfully chewing on food that John had made – he daren't say he wasn't hungry, the look John shot at him as he opened his mouth, warning and sad at once as though his own mood depended on whether or not Sherlock ate.

He says, casually, "I saw Alice earlier." He feels it is significant enough to mention but isn't sure why, and John's reaction puzzles him. His eyes snap straight to Sherlock's, the colour in his face suddenly turned up, alarmed.

"What did she say?" John asks, still looking worried. Sherlock frowns.

"She told me to go away. And then she walked off."

John's face relaxed slightly. "Oh. Well." He resumed reading the newspaper and eating in silence, a habit which he had indulged all too often recently. Even Sherlock was beginning to tire of the silence, so used to the flat being filled with John's amusingly irate monologues on whatever he was doing at the time, swearing at the washing machine or muttering darkly at his laptop. Sherlock decided to attempt to be supportive, a notion only previously known to him on a conceptual basis.

"Are you – alright?" he began, feeling that as openers go, it wasn't bad. John's fork hovered, mid-air, and he looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You haven't spoken much. I assume you've been ... missing Alice."

It's awkward and stilted but at least he's made the effort, and while John still looks suspicious he hasn't begun eating again. John clears his throat.

"Yeah. I suppose. Weird, when you've spent so long with someone and then you just – stop. Talking and seeing each other."

Sherlock feels a small twist of unfamiliar something in his stomach at John's words, and he realises that John has stopped talking to him too. He takes too long to reply to this, the longest sentence he has uttered all day, and John's face changes minutely as he registers the meaning of what he has said.

"I'm sorry," he continues, putting his fork down now, his face heavy with guilt. "I haven't meant to – shut you out, Sherlock. I've been dealing with things, you know, getting my head round everything. Normally you that doesn't speak for days," he jokes, but it sits between them, unfunny, as the smile he attempts doesn't reach his eyes. Despite this, Sherlock is emboldened by his success in making John say _anything_, even if it is with that weary tone and he decides he's rather good at this cheering-John-up lark. He resolves to make John more cheerful if only just for one evening.

"Let's go to the pub," he replies, gaily. John doesn't say anything and so Sherlock adds, "You know, we can have some wine – beer, if you wish – and it might make you less... you know." He waved a hand towards John, his face set in stone. John doesn't speak and then eventually, he smiles, a wry little curve that crinkles the corner of his eyes.

"Alright. I'll try not to be a miserable sod and you can try not to offend the bar staff like last time. But only if you finish that, because you've barely eaten in days." John says, the slightest hint of something resembling worry in his voice. Sherlock is surprised – and irritated – that John has noticed this, but he's had more important things to worry about than eating, such as John's increasingly distant mood. Then John interrupts this train of thought by adding, "You hate the pub, though."

_Damn. _Sherlock raises his eyebrows and offers his most winning smile. "Not always."

John looks suspicious again. "Yes, you do. You say their wine's never good enough, and you continually tell couples they're nauseating or obviously not going to last, and you complain that the people around you are morons." He's factual but clearly intrigued by Sherlock's uncharacteristically social behaviour, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, fervently hoping John doesn't suspect he's trying to be nice. He'd never let Sherlock live it down. Plus, alcohol will loosen John's tongue and he might be able to discover, incurably nosy as always, what exactly is making him act like a miserable teenager.

"Well, tonight I want to go. And- ", he grabs his coat, tossing John's deftly towards him, "I'm not eating that. Because we're going now."

And, giving John no time to protest, he herds him out of the door only minutes later, setting a brisk pace in the late autumnal air. John has resumed silence but he is quietly confident that a few drinks will get him to open up; he suspects that there is something other people would find morally wrong in plying someone with alcohol in order to get them to talk about their feelings, but he dismisses the notion as soon as it occurs to him. He is going to get John very, very drunk.


	4. Chapter 4

The pub is fairly busy, people milling around red-cheeked and smiling as though a little London pub on a cold evening was the best possible place to be. Sherlock studies John's face covertly as they wait at the bar – he looked more relaxed, but there was still something about him that was just one degree off, a wariness. He orders the drinks – gin for him, real ale for John, and even deigns to pay for them, an act so uncharacteristic that John frowns, confused – and then leads the way to a booth, cushioned and inviting, in the corner of the bar.

John drinks quietly for a minute or so, eyes scanning the room. Sherlock realises with a start that he may be called upon to initiate conversation, and he scrambles for an appropriate topic.

"Cheers," he offers, raising his glass to John. John inclines his head slightly and raises his glass in return.

"Cheers, Sherlock. Thanks for bringing me out, needed a change of scenery." John replies, tapping the rim of his glass absentmindedly. "Don't know what's been wrong with me recently, actually."

Sherlock was encouraged. Conversation was better than strained silence. "You've been sad." he guesses wildly, hoping that was the right answer. He imagines that John would want to talk about his feelings and he'd steeled himself for this foray in supportiveness by making his gin a double, but to his surprise, John shakes his head, smiling for the first time since they'd got there.

"No, no. I don't want to sit here navel gazing and being confused, let's just get – Tony!" he breaks off, smiling tightly to his left somewhere. Sherlock is so busy being surprised at John's words, baffled by his use of 'confused', that it takes him a second to that John is actually looking at someone approaching the table.

_Tall – six feet two, posture suggesting military, which would explain why he knows John, _Sherlock's mind clicks into action, _but his choice of shirt and smartphone say banker; married; same age or thereabouts as John – school friend?_ John was looking at the man with genuine surprise – pleased to see him, or not? Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Doctor Watson!" The man's voice is gravelly, his drink raised in his left hand by way of greeting. "And this is?" He gestures to Sherlock, who tries and mostly fails to rearrange his face into an appropriately polite setting. John's face betrays a tiny flicker of annoyance before answering, "Colleague of mine. Friend, I mean. Sherlock Holmes."

The man nods at Sherlock jovially, but his eyes flick head to toe, evaluating him, as he does so and Sherlock is unsure why, but he doesn't like this City boy with his expensive watch and his smooth smile. John's face is smiling but his voice neutral as he adds, "This is Tony Carmichael, Sherlock. We were at Bart's together." Sherlock nods back in answer and John continues, "So – how are things? Still in cardiology?"

Tony smiles mock-humbly; Sherlock senses that he is pleased his career has been mentioned. "Yeah, got to keep the money coming in. Support the missus and her expensive taste," he quips, with a wink that seems to imply to Sherlock this was a joke of some sort. John's eyebrows lift a fraction, his mouth making the beginnings of an 'O'.

"You're married now?" _Of course he's married, John, look at his left hand, _Sherlock thinks impatiently. As if to prove his point, Tony waggles it, the ring glinting dully - it hadn't been polished in months.

"Yep." He replies, a smug smile.

"Never thought I'd see the day," John parries weakly, an attempt at humour. Tony allows the merest shadow of a frown pass his face before he displays into a wide smile and says, loudly, "Well, we all have to leave the adventures of our youth behind at some point, John!"

John nods evasively. "Congratulations." Then he gestures, vaguely, at the table, at Sherlock, their little outing, and says, a dismissal, "Well, nice seeing you, mate."

The other man looks pleased, as though he'd scored a point, and bids them both goodbye, exiting the pub. Sherlock, who had watched this exchange with interest, rounds on John the very second Tony is out of the door.

"So what's the story there? Rival classmates? Fight over a girl? He stole the best corpses for dissection?"

John shifts uncomfortably and takes another mouthful of his beer, shaking his head.

"Nothing like that. We were friends, then we had a misunderstanding, and we didn't speak for a long time afterwards. Drifted apart, I suppose."

Sherlock finds this scenario possible but dull. "Boring. Can't it be something more interesting?" There has to be something more to it; John looked physically uncomfortable in this man's presence.

John frowns. "Sherlock, you are the only person in London who thinks it's normal to have an archenemy. I'd rather have a boring acquaintance than a kidnapping, constantly-watching Mycroft." He's teasing, but avoiding the point. Sherlock decides another drink is in order, swooping back from the bar minutes later with two more drinks each, adding innocently as he sits down, "The bar was busy, I thought I'd save us time by doubling up."

John slides them both towards him slowly. "And you paid for these?"

"Obviously." Sherlock sniffs, but John suspects he is lying and he pulls a face of disbelief, scoffing.

"Well," Sherlock amends, "I'm using Mycroft's credit card. But it seemed necessary."

A smile, shared amusement at Mycroft's expense. Good. John drinks up quickly and Sherlock thinks with something akin to glee that he might stand a chance of John being drunk within the next half an hour. He finishes his own gin – a single this time, he doesn't want to be more drunk than John, not when he could use John's weakened defences to find out what has been troubling him of late.

"Last orders at the bar, please!"

Sherlock looks over at John, ruddy and smiling, and smile back lazily, triumphantly. John is holding an animated conversation with the barman about otters and Sherlock stumbles over, manhandling John towards the door and throwing a slurred, "Thank you, barman, you've been otterly helpful." over his shoulder, sending John into hysterical giggles. In the cold air once more, John flings his head back and stares up at the stars, breathing clouds of translucent white into the air.

"That's the solar system, you idiot," John mutters, out of nowhere. Sherlock, who had been walking – weaving, really – round the bollards by the side of the road, stops and looks up.

"Not useful, John."

"S'beautiful though." John replies, defiantly. Somewhere in the alcohol-steeped corner of Sherlock's mind, this comment touches a nerve as though he'd complimented Sherlock himself, and Sherlock looks at him, serious now.

"Why were you acting funny around that man, earlier?" He manages, long fingers clinging to a crumbling brick wall for support. John sighs heavily, closing his eyes a fraction and rubbing a weary hand over his eyes.

"I told you. Misunderstanding." The word comes out thickly from John's throat . Sherlock narrows his eyes, waving an arm vaguely in the direction of the road in the vain hope of a taxi, and replies, "What kind of misunderstanding?"

John gives up trying to stand straight and leans against the wall Sherlock has just vacated.

"Drunk one night – like now, actually, very drunk, and we ... it was a med party, and there was so much alcohol. And we kissed, a few times and there was..." he stopped a second, conscious even at this level of inebriation that he was revealing something previously undeduced by Sherlock, gesturing expansively at nothing as thought to distract - "... we did.. there was other stuff going on too and then it happened a few times at parties. And then we didn't talk anymore."

And with that, he slid down the wall just as Sherlock, mind fizzing with alcohol and new data mingling together, manages to flag a taxi.


	5. Chapter 5

John's head is hurting. Sherlock can tell this by the tentative way he opens one eye, then the other, and sits up as thought he might shatter at any moment. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, moments after his arduous ascent up to the flat. Sherlock had sat in his chair - just for a moment, pondering John's words, and yet now there was sunlight streaming through the windows in an unpleasantly cheerful fashion and one very hungover John Watson peering at him warily.

"Ohhh." John says. Sherlock offers a wan smile, his own head reminding him that alcohol wasn't his favourite way to forget an evening. "Oh dear." John tries again. "Did I...Was I embarrassingly drunk?"

"You weren't sick and you appear to be all in one piece - a successful evening, I'd say." Sherlock smiles. John smiles back ruefully and begins the slow process of making tea, wincing at the metallic clatter of dropping a teaspoon in the sink and taking several deep breaths before opening the fridge.

Sherlock isn't sure if he remembers the conversation from the night before, or even if it is significant – after all, other peoples' sexual behaviour is largely uninteresting to him unless it happens to be relevant to a case. But John was, Sherlock thinks carefully, very much a ladies' man. And now a ladies' man with a secret dalliance with a man in his past. Interesting.

John sits on the sofa for several minutes, head in hands, muttering what sounds like '_I'm never drinking again' _to himself, before swearing quietly. "Shit. I've said I'll pop into the surgery today to shadow the new doctor. And I smell like beer and I need a shower. And I've got 45 minutes."

Sherlock grins the smug smile of one who has no need to force their hangover into sunlight and contact with other people. "I suppose you'd better hurry then, Dr. Watson. Shall we have takeaway for dinner?" – but John has already heaved himself off the sofa, groaning weakly. Half an hour later he waves half-heartedly, damp hair and pale-faced.

As he watches John leave, Sherlock thinks privately that he looks like a man who is going to struggle making it to the surgery, never mind actually seeing patients, so it is with some surprise that Sherlock hears John talking animatedly several hours later, footsteps on the stairs light and purposeful.

He notes it is now early evening – his mind has been racing for hours, time warping past him – and that the voice answering John's is female. Not Mrs Hudson, or even Anthea – an unfamiliar female voice, all tinkling laughter and enthusiasm. Sherlock scowls.

"Oh – hello!" The voice says. It is coming from the mouth of a thirty-ish female – she is blonde and, Sherlock supposes, pretty. An NHS badge hangs around her neck and she carries a bag no doubt full of textbooks, so Sherlock correctly guesses that she is the new doctor John has been shadowing. John appears to have forgotten Sherlock will already know more about this woman than John could tell him without his introduction being uncomfortably long, and says brightly, "This is Anna, the new doctor from work; Anna – this is Sherlock."

Sherlock eyes her keenly and nods, before returning his attention to the diagram of parabolas in front of him. He sees, from the corner of his eye, the blonde doctor who has managed to pique John's interest in merely a day, flash a confused look and John's returning shrug.

"I thought – well, she's new to the area so I thought she could share that takeaway you mentioned with us," John supplied, fidgeting slightly, motioning at Anna to take a seat. Sherlock says nothing and John, rolling his eyes, takes this as consent.

Dinner is a drawn-out affair. Sherlock, barely hungry as always, pushes his food around his plate like a sullen teenager and speaks less than three words to Anna. _If she had anything interesting to say then I would make conversation, _Sherlock tries to communicate through a look as John shoots him a glare. She talks about medical school and television and moving to a new area and a wealth of things that Sherlock finds unspeakably dull, but what Sherlock does find interesting is that she keeps shooting him furtive glances, when John is turned away. He is used to people looking at him as though he is an oddity and thinks nothing of it, but when John disappears to see if Mrs Hudson wants what's left of the Chinese takeaway and Sherlock is sitting in his chair, it becomes much clearer.

"So what's the deal - with you and him?" she asks, her voice falsely cheerful. Sherlock turns slowly to face her and calibrates his voice for perfect neutrality with only a hint of disdain.

"I don't know what you mean." He says shortly. She rolls her eyes. 

"Of course you don't. That's why you're acting like a protective sheepdog around him."

She is unabashed, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and forthrightness, and Sherlock is marginally impressed.

"He's my friend. He's just had one relationship end and therefore does not need another romantic interest at the moment."

She gives a small laugh, regarding him almost indulgently. "And look why that relationship ended. He told me all about it today at lunch, poor confused John - doesn't _that _tell you something?"

Sherlock is confused for a second, until the words on John's letter swim back into place. _You're in love with somebody else. _He scoffs.

"John and I are - colleagues and friends, and nothing more. I assure you we are used to this kind of assumption and it's quite tedious." He drawls, amused. He expects this to be the last of the matter but Anna shrugs lightly.

"His ex-girlfriend thinks he's in love with somebody else, and neither of you can see it. _I don't know what she's on about, I was completely faithful, _he said to me today, absolutely clueless. Well, I've been here – oh," she glances at her watch, exaggerated, "two hours, and I can see it already. He looks at you like you're some kind of hero and you guard him like he's your favourite toy - " John's footsteps on the stairs signal an end to the conversation, and Sherlock fixes his eyes back on his book, his throat inexplicably dry.

John walked into complete silence, thick with unfinished conversation. He coughed nervously and began to collect their plates, but Anna placed a hand on his arm softly and said, "Thanks so much for dinner, John. And it was lovely to meet Sherlock , but I really must go now. Leave you to it."

She adds this last part with a flicker of a smile in Sherlock's direction, who glares stonily back. John looks nonplussed – he'd personally thought he might have been in with a chance – but smiled affably and shows her out, chatting easily about clinic opening hours and their next shift together. When he comes back in, however, his face is like thunder.

"What did you say to her? I leave you alone for two minutes and all of a sudden she can't wait to get out!"

Sherlock sighs. "I didn't say anything. In fact, she did all the talking and most of it was utter hogwash."

John, who hadn't been expecting a reply, raises his eyebrows with interest at this statement. "And what exactly was she talking about?"

"The usual assumptions people make when they first meet us both." Sherlock hedges – but John looks like a terrier with something in its teeth, obviously irritated that Sherlock has managed to send this pretty new doctor packing in under two hours and therefore ruining his chances.

"That you're an unfriendly bastard and I must be mad to live with you?" John half-jokes.

"No, that we're in love with each other. And that's why your relationship with Alice ended." Sherlock says wearily, tired of this conversation – of conversation in general, given that he normally avoids communicating with people other than John or Lestrade unless absolutely necessary. Lucky, then, that John says nothing in response to this, his face suddenly – angry? He exhales loudly and exits the room, leaving Sherlock to ruminate on the meaning of this.

And the next day, Sherlock notes, early afternoon, that John visits his therapist again.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock waits for John to leave the tall, Edwardian house in Kensington, his steady gait moving in the other direction, before he moves to the doorbell and pressed it – once, hard. A voice crackles into life from the intercom and asks him, in soothing tones that spoke of expensive rates per hour, "Can I help?".

Sherlock finds he has to bend towards the silver box and replies, in his most reassuring tone, "I'm here to see Dr. Khan," adding, for good measure, "please."

There is a beat of silence, and then a faint click indicating that the door was now open. Inside the reception – tastefully decorated, no doubt calculated to be precisely the right balance between comforting and medical – a young girl looked keenly at him, the most minute shadow of confusion on her face.

"Excuse me – Sir?" she begins, tentatively, "Dr. Khan doesn't actually _have _any more appointments until after lunch." She gestures at the computer screen before her as though to prove her point. He nods back understandingly, fishing in his pocket for his back-up plan.

Flashing Lestrade's badge (useful in so many ways, he thought as he pocketed it), he parries smoothly, "Oh, this won't take long. Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard."

The girl's face drops momentarily, a small 'O' of surprise. Then she smiles tightly, hurrying over to knock on an unmarked mahogany door. "Dr. Khan," she calls into the unknown room, "A detective wants to speak to you."

The sound of light footsteps inside moves closer. The door swings open to reveal a petite woman with piercing eyes standing a good foot below his height. He flashes the badge again, preparing to speak, but as he moves to put it swiftly back in his pocket, she stops him and holds it between thumb and forefinger. She studies it for a second too long. Sherlock curses himself inwardly for having the lack of foresight to forget putting his own picture on the badge and quickly prepares to lie his way out of the building, but – to Sherlock's surprise – she nods at the receptionist.

"Thank you, Lara. Come in, Detective Inspector."

The girl leaves silently and Sherlock, intrigued, follows the doctor into what appears to be a very expensively furnished study. The doctor turns now to face him and says quietly, with a tone that allows for no disagreement, "You're Sherlock Holmes."

Well, it was pointless lying now. She had seen that the ID badge didn't belong to him. "Yes."

"You have, no doubt, come to ask me about a patient of mine." She continues smoothly, turning a file on her desk over to conceal the notes – neatly written, Sherlock notes approvingly – and sliding a file into a drawer. Sherlock tries one of his smiles, the ones John says could almost be appealing if he weren't obviously faking them.

"I'm worried about him," he tries, trying to look every inch the concerned flatmate, hoping she would conveniently ignore the fact that he was in her office under false pretences. The psychologist eyes him with what looks like concern.

"You are aware that anything said between myself and a patient is confidential, and that I cannot even confirm the attendance of any particular patient in accordance with data governance guidelines?"

Sherlock nods, feeling as though he has wasted a journey. John wouldn't question where he had been – he had left a note saying he was at St Bart's – but this woman is sharper than he expected.

However – "You knew who I was, so whether you recognise me from the newspapers or from John's blog, you know of our connection and therefore you also know I am aware of John's visits to you. And I'm not asking you to breach confidentiality – I am merely trying to find out," he falters. Why exactly is he here? Dr Khan raises one eyebrow a fraction, waiting. "...how I can help him." He finishes, somewhat weakly. She considers him for several seconds before her face softens slightly, she looks at him with tilted head and a kind of sympathy.

"I can't say anything, Mr Holmes, that would jeopardise the relationship I have with my clients. What I will say is that if you were concerned enough to lie your way into my office to establish why a particular person would be seeking my services, perhaps you should have a very frank conversation with that person." She looks like an exasperated mother, fond and weary at once. Sherlock frowns back.

"If John was going to tell me why he was visiting you, I wouldn't have come here to ask you myself." he says evenly, as though explaining something to a small child. She raises her eyebrow again.

"No. But people find it very difficult to admit things to those closest to them, those who are too embroiled in their daily life and their problems to be of any use when it comes to untangling the web. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've said enough." She straightens up from where she had been resting on the edge of her desk and holds the door open. "Talk to him. Even if he doesn't reply, people often forget it doesn't always take professional help to work something through."

Sherlock, feeling as though he had been handed a consolation prize, fails to put a sentence together in his mind before he has been ushered back onto the street. Dr Khans's words have no more enlightened him than John's permanently inscrutable expression had of late. He had attempted to cheer John with an evening of drinking and had inadvertently dragged up some mysterious tryst with a fellow student - he had then spent days acting as though nothing was wrong and John was still stubbornly acting as though something very much was. Sherlock admits to himself as his mind hums frantically on the taxi ride home that he is excellent at most things, but bringing out emotional confessions is not one of them. He's not entirely sure he wants John to spill his emotions out, messy and so many variables and data Sherlock can't put into neat boxes. But the sheer thickness of the atmosphere in the flat is driving Sherlock distracted – glances from John that he doesn't quite meet, smiles that seem to have hidden sadness, not knowing the full story. If there's one thing Sherlock cannot stand, it is being kept in the dark about something.


	7. Chapter 7

The mug hitting the table a fraction too hard, the handle flying off and shattering uselessly, jolts Sherlock out of his intense reverie.

It has been – he glances at his watch – three minutes and twenty seven seconds since he had uttered the words, "John, I want to know what's really going on. Why you're acting like your world has been turned upside down, when as far as I can tell it hasn't. You need to tell me."

There has been nothing but thin, brittle silence since. Sherlock supposes he might have been offensive – his tone was imperious and demanding rather than supportive, and perhaps slightly dismissive if there was in fact something wrong. But even Sherlock would admit to himself that being deprived of his usual ability to simply _know_ everything was making him even more exasperating than usual. John has been moving around the flat, tidying the kitchen and giving every impression that Sherlock's words had simply evaporated between them – except for a murderous look on his face that suggested otherwise. Then John had slammed the mug down on the table, hot Earl Grey leaping everywhere and suddenly Sherlock feels like this might have been a mistake.

"Could you just stop _pushing,_Sherlock? Do you ever stop? It's always some quest for data with you, isn't it? You think everything is about black and white and you never once for a second consider someone's feelings in it all!" John appears to have split at the seams, looking undone and fierce all at once. Sherlock's first instinct, borne out of nothing really, is to stand up, and he does as his brain is spinning, sending messages like _no Sherlock what's happening here_ and _John looks like a man possessed_ uselessly across his cerebral cortex.

John is angry with him. _Angry?_ He can't know about the visit to his therapist – he's only been back an hour and John's phone has been reassuringly silent the whole time. Nothing about John's reaction to his question seems logical and he is reminded, as he is so often in John's presence, that the emotional range – the depth, the complexity of it all, fascinating and yet unpredictably terrifying - of the average person is something he is startlingly unversed in. He isn't sure how to proceed; he'd envisioned speaking in soothing tones and offering tea, perhaps – he winces at the prospect – a friendly hand on the shoulder of a heartbroken man. Not World War Three.

"I am merely asking, John," he blusters, defensive mode activated before he can help himself, "because you haven't been yourself and I was... concerned." Then he looks at the hot tea, everywhere, and gestures helplessly at John. "Your hands.."

John barks bitterly, waving one of his hands dismissively, studiously ignoring the shards of domestic life on the table.

"No, Sherlock, you just can't stand not knowing something. When are you ever concerned about my emotional state? _Oh John, do you want a hug?_" he imitates, oddly accurate, Sherlock's private-school drawl. "I don't fucking think so. My head is – up my arse, to be honest. And no offence, but you're not exactly the type of person to offer tea and sympathy so drop the act, and just ...drop it. Everything."

He is fierce but doesn't move from the spot, reminding Sherlock ineluctably of a toddler with his rage that seems to have nowhere to go, balled fists and slightly red cheeks. He isn't offended by John's words, factual as they are, but he is annoyed by John's suggestion that he doesn't attempt normality for John's sake, however infrequently.

"I might not be there for tea and sympathy, as you put it, but I have _tried_, John," his voice sounding annoyingly pleading. "I went to the pub because I thought it would cheer you up, I haven't played my violin at three in the morning for weeks, I have let you march about with your foul mood and your sour bloody expression and no, I don't understand relationships but I understand you, and this isn't normal. So don't act like I haven't attempted to be here for you. It's exhausting, I don't know that Jeremy bloke on television does it." He attempts the last part as a joke, but John's face doesn't even register a hint of a smile.

"I like it when you play the violin at three in the morning," is John's quiet reply. He doesn't look any happier, but there is a caged look to his eyes that suggests Sherlock's pursuit of the truth is drawing him ever closer. Sherlock tilts his head slightly, attempting to understand this side-step.

"You usually complain that it keeps you awake and that I'm endangering the lives of your patients by causing your insomnia." He frowns. At this, John manages the smallest smile Sherlock has ever seen, and somehow that seems sadder than no smile at all.

"Well. I must have got used to it. So don't stop on my account."

Sherlock nods, completely lost by now. John sighs, very heavily, and lets his head fall backwards to gaze at the ceiling.

"There are some things, Sherlock, that you can feel, and you just can't do anything about it."

Sherlock's ears prick up but his brain stumbles on this conversation path – _anger to violin to resignation_ is hardly logical.

"Why not?" He asks simply, staring at the broken mug. John Watson is not a man who lets anger get the better of him very often.

"Because... you just wouldn't understand. There's no point explaining." John says wearily. Sherlock feels something like anger bubble in his stomach and takes a step towards John, chin jutting upwards.

"I am not an _idiot_, John! You seem to think I understand nothing of human emotion – I'm not incapable of it, you know! I merely don't allow it to get in the way of my everyday behaviour to the extent that you obviously do." He adds angrily, glaring down at John, using his full height to his advantage. John's eyebrows flicker in shock for a second before he seems to implode, and his face is flying towards Sherlock's to place one, fierce kiss on Sherlock's angrily pursed mouth. It's hot and forceful and Sherlock doesn't even have time to register that John's hand is clenched round a fistful of his hair before he lets go, pushing Sherlock away from him, and stares fixedly, hands clenched, at the fridge.

"Do you understand that, Sherlock? Because I don't."

And, like a video stuck on a loop, Sherlock is left standing alone as John walks away with the unexplainable stretched between them.


	8. Chapter 8

If the silence was unbearable before, now it was excruciating. Sherlock can feel the bloom of a new bruise on the inside of his lip and he rubs his tongue over it experimentally, tasting blood. The slam of John's bedroom door makes him wince and he wills his brain to just _stop_ for a moment, let the information filter into small, manageable sections rather than the cacophony inside his skull that was threatening to send him into overload.

_What are the facts?_ He begins moving the pieces of broken mug into the bin methodically, presenting the case to himself. _John's ex-girlfriend suspected he was in love with somebody other than her; many people think we are a couple; John has acted differently of late; he has been to visit his psychiatrist which indicates a level of emotional confusion and _- he takes a deep breath, finding that forming the words even in his head is alien to him – _John just kissed me. _

It seems fairly obvious to Sherlock, now, what has been wrong with John, and he kicks himself for not realising earlier. Yet he is struck by the notion that he has no idea what he would have done if had realised any sooner – while he is, theoretically, attracted to both men and women, Sherlock has trained himself to ignore any flicker in his lower stomach, any gaze held a second too long purely for the fact that emotions are illogical, irrational, not easily deconstructed. Sherlock prefers a world where he has the intellectual upper hand and love is not one such world.

To climb those stairs and speak to John would mean he would need to know what to say, and he doesn't. There are no words for Sherlock to say that if allowed himself any such thoughts, that John – resilient, patient John – is the closest he has ever felt, emotionally, to anybody. That when John offers a deduction that is off the mark, Sherlock merely encourages him to dig deeper, rather than dismissing his capacity to be helpful; that he wants John to be a part of this niche he has carved out of London. The longest time anybody has ever previously spent in cohabitation with Sherlock (excepting his family, who had no choice and thanked God for the mercy of boarding school) was three months, a kindly deaf gentleman for whom the final straw was drinking week-old milk, unable to hear Sherlock's absent-minded warnings as to its edibility. John has been here now – Sherlock counts mentally, finding the activity calming - a year and eight months. And for every second of those six hundred and eight days, John has been a constant. From the skulking about muttering angrily at kitchen appliances to the quirk of his eyebrow that Sherlock has come to understand means _social faux pas committed_, John has been unerringly the same, the most blessed kind of mundane. This has changed everything, and Sherlock is unsure how to continue to preserve what he has become accustomed to, reliant on. John is his one anchor, on some days, to sanity and sobriety.

He picks up his violin and begins Seranade Melancolique by Tchaikovsky, slow and bittersweet, and allows his thoughts to wrap around the music. The languid notes soothe him even as they open an ache in his throat he doesn't understand, freezing him in a moment that is purely the music and the familiarity of the flat – their flat – and holds John, suspended between the notes, in his mind between what they were and, the tempo picking up now, stabbing notes that sob from the chest of his violin, whatever will happen next.

He is, eyes closed, drawing the bow frantically, as John reappears in the living room, his eyes the colours of tears withheld and his posture a fraction too tight.

"Stop." he says, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, too unsure of what will happen if he does, and continues to play, fist tight around his bow. John's voice is louder this time – "Sherlock, stop."

He snatches the instrument from Sherlock's hands and tosses them onto the couch, something which could previously have sent Sherlock into an apoplectic rage at John's carelessness but garners barely a glance. John exhales, hard.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave tomorrow." John says now, the silence in the room cracking on his words. Sherlock has no idea what he expected but that is not it, not the desirable outcome of this situation.

"No." he replies dumbly, adding inside his head _if you leave then who else do I have, John?_

John shakes his head, will not meet his eye. "I have to. I've...messed everything up. This isn't your fault, I'm not expecting any kind of reaction or – I don't know," a harsh laugh that opens the ache in Sherlock's throat back up, "-reciprocation, I know that isn't going to happen. So I'll leave and then you – can play the violin at all hours of the day and nobody will mind." His voice cracks, the slightest amount, on these last words and suddenly Sherlock is struck by ice-cold fear that John will really leave.

"I don't want you to leave." he replies, frowning deeply. "I need you here."

It is true, but it feels like a bribe. John closes his eyes as though the words were a slap in the face and presses his lips together tightly, shaking his head.

"There's nothing – I don't know how to explain. I can't explain. But in my own way, your friendship has become indispensible to me. That has never happened before, with anyone." Sherlock realises as he says this that the words would have seemed all too sentimental to him, before this moment, but that they need to be said. John doesn't open his eyes for long seconds.

"How do I live here, in this flat, knowing that I am purely your friend? Have you ever experienced unrequited - " John breaks off here, screwing his eyes more tightly shut. Sherlock finishes the sentence in his head and feels as though he has forgotten the process of breathing. To his knowledge, nobody has ever directed such a powerful statement, half-finished as it is, at him, and he feels instantly weighed down with the responsibility of it.

He remembers, his brain flickering through reels of memory, toys from his childhood. Soldier figurines, board games, yo-yos and wooden blocks were discarded and battered from misuse, his interest in them only fleeting and mild. But those he did love, inexplicably and all-consuming – a stuffed bear with a crooked stitched smile, a model of a boat varnished until it shone – he had treasured with a fierceness that bore no real root. He could not explain then, could not explain now, why he had loved them so, but they had reassured him, been constant in his life.

He thinks, as he desperately tries to avoid saying anything that might cause John, wounded animal eyes and fight-or-flight breathing, to flee, that John Watson is something he does not want to discard. And, he hopes urgently, that this will be enough to make him stay.


	9. Chapter 9

"I mean this, John. Don't leave. I won't begin to pretend that I know how a normal person would act in this set of circumstances, but you cannot leave." Sherlock's words aren't quite pleading, aren't quite demanding, but there's conviction to them. Doubt hangs over John like neon signs and Sherlock cannot fathom whether he is doubting Sherlock's words or his own decision to leave, so he continues, irrationally anxious about the concept of 221B without John Watson, as necessary as the battered sofa or fireplace-dwelling skull. "I haven't said how I feel yet. You didn't give me chance."

There's a hint of sulkiness in his voice, the petulant child ignored at the dinner table, and John's face seems to register the merest shade of amusement at his tone before it is replaced with hope so patently obvious it hurts Sherlock to look at him. Because – how to explain? It's true, he views John as different from the scores of other people who have entered his life, in countless ways. But he isn't - has never been – comfortable with the unpredictability of romantic thought. Curiously, sex has never been an issue; it is biological, explicable, follows (regardless of ingenious positioning and an exhaustive list of variables) set patterns and has clearly defined goals. To be emotionally linked means allowing somebody to occupy space inside Sherlock's most treasured possession; his mind.

And yet. John Watson, possibly the bravest man Sherlock has ever known, stands there unguarded, and Sherlock has to tread carefully.

"You don't feel the same." John says firmly, before Sherlock can make his next move. Caught off-guard, Sherlock parries weakly, "One kiss is not an explanation of how you feel, John."

It feels flippant, and John flinches at the word 'kiss', but then he shrugs in agreement.

"No. But I don't really understand it either, and I'd just make a mess of trying to explain."

"Try." Sherlock doesn't know what else to say, but he is lost, banging into furniture at 3AM in the dark or feeling for a lightswitch. John rubs a hand over his nose and shuts his eyes for a second before saying, in a tone that is meant to be conversational, "I would rather be here, reading books on ancient Chinese symbols, with you, than out to dinner with any one of my girlfriends. I automatically include you in everything I plan and I think of this, life here, as our life."

It is a sentence that makes perfect sense to Sherlock, but John sounds almost ashamed and that opens up that ache in his throat again that makes him feel seasick.

"I would rather you were here than out with your insufferably dull girlfriends. And you are possibly the only person I have ever automatically included – wanted to include – in any of my plans, and this here, our life, is one that I don't have any plans or desire to change at any point in the foreseeable future." If this is what is worrying John, Sherlock feels much calmer. Because this, to him, is simple. Not frightening or complicated. He wants John Watson here, and he doesn't want anybody else here. John's face indicates that he doesn't feel nearly as soothed by these words as Sherlock has hoped.

"Just this? Here?" John's voice is cracking. "Because it's so much more than that, Sherlock. It's wanting to be the best of yourself for someone else, it's wanting them nearby, it's..."

And Sherlock is slowly, dawningly feeling realisation rise up to meet him.

"You mean," he says, half-questioning, "how I resist playing the violin at 3AM because I want you to be able to sleep? Or haven't touched even the merest hint of an illegal substance in over 20 months? Or text you weather updates so that you don't wear wool cardigans which hold the rain and mean you end up ill -" he breaks off, aware only now of these little things that have become his life.

John's eyes, still red-rimmed and open, lift slowly. He nods, silently, and Sherlock thinks he is beginning to understand. He manages, for a moment, to feel like himself again, the aching subsiding.

"I fail to see why this realisation would bother you so much. If this is caring for someone – it's not... like everyone else hasn't seen this coming." Almost a joke. Almost. He is elated, a problem beginning to unwork itself, unravel, reveal the way forward.

"But it's still more than that, Sherlock, it's – something else as well, a... pull -" John falters, hardly daring to allow that Sherlock is as aware of the inevitability of their necessity to one another, and then Sherlock Holmes does something that surprises even himself.

He takes the two, short steps towards his best friend – his only friend – and pulls the weary, unsure face towards him, long fingers in short sandy hair and a brain at once blessedly, momentously free of anything other than the heat of John's mouth.

"Do you mean this?" he mutters quietly.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock has forgotten.

Forgotten that when someone's breathing speeds up in your ear, it can feel like your stomach has dropped through the floor, and that when that someone's teeth nip lightly on the swollen skin on your lips, your hands will clench around their hair reflexively. The giddying terror of being able to elicit a low groan from the mouth of another, a mouth that is drawing involuntary sounds of your own, the contrast between the pressure of saying how you feel and the weightlessness that comes with simply showing it. His mind begins to spin ever farther from the logical home it normally inhabits and towards complete incoherence, and it has been years since he has considered exercising caution in anything, and so he continues. He drags a thumb over John's earlobe and is rewarded with a shiver, sucks fiercely on John's lower lip to be compensated with a jerk of the hips, frantic and needy and angry and almost – _almost, but not quite_, Sherlock thinks – too much.

Sherlock has forgotten this powerful chemical reaction, this firework show of his neurotransmitters, and thinks for a fleeting second that no drug could match the purity of this high when John steps back, breath erratic. Sherlock's eyebrows lower, displeased.

"What are you doing?" he asks, almost irritated. John exhales, hard, and adjusts his stance slightly with the heat of embarrassment – was it embarrassment? – written across his cheekbones and ears.

"Well, I ... it's all a bit sudden."

Sherlock, with his inability to gauge a social situation, replies tartly, "It's never bothered you before." But he adds an off-kilter smile - because John's face, confused and serious, is inexplicably appealing to him in a way that makes him want to raise his eyebrows at himself and sigh patronisingly. John takes a deep breath and tries again.

"I mean – you've spent a year acting as though I'm a mildly amusing piece of furniture that makes you tea, and now you're jumping me in our living room? Hardly surprising that I'm confused."

"Oh, do be quiet, John. " says Sherlock, and this time the kisses are a dare, stop-me-if-you-can, drawing John out from behind his thoughts and into a realm where only Sherlock's body and mouth and hands have his attention.

_I don't care if we don't sleep at all tonight, let's just fix this thing now_

It's nothing like the sexual experiences of Sherlock's past. No talking, thank goodness – he can't imagine what they would say, or need to say – and John does not look at Sherlock's commanding nature and see it as an invitation to lay passive. No; John is definite and clear about what he wants, drawing Sherlock to the sofa and undressing him without preamble, his hands exploring Sherlock's chest (_rough and thick and insistent, _are thewords that flicker through his mind_) _and Sherlock's jawline with his mouth (_heat_, thinks Sherlock). He has accepted Sherlock's dare, and he moves with precision and intent. He removes his own clothes and Sherlock, stubbornly desperate to prove he is not the naïf John seems to assume, wants to waste no time. He wants this, he has decided, but the motive doesn't seem completely clear in his mind. That he cares for John – evidenced by normal social parameters, no less – is obvious to him now, and he is still subject to desire like anybody else despite his steely efforts to remain otherwise. And yet; the thought that he is trying to prove a point occurs to him. With no clear idea what that point is but a sense of purpose, Sherlock wills himself to ignore any nagging doubt and show John Watson just how brilliant he can be; he sinks to the floor, hands braced on John's thighs, and begins to suck John slowly, methodically, relentless even as John's hands push his shoulders - _too much – _and then grasp his hair – _not enough – _working his breathing into shallow gasps as he flinches beneath Sherlock's dedicated mouth. He rubs his thumb along the wet underneath of John's cock and feels a spark of pure heat along his spine at the way John's eyes screw closed, a sharp intake of breath as Sherlock resumes running his tongue along the length of his thighs then upwards. Sherlock taunts with his mouth, determined as he places a hand, a restraint, again John's shoulders to stop him from moving an inch as he draws him closer to the murky edge Sherlock feels himself precariously near. He is agonisingly, achingly turned on but he is a man possessed, set upon drawing every last coherent thought from the doctor's brain; he raises the tempo of his movements, the fluid motions reminding him of a sonata yet the staccato heartbeat they share the beat of war drums in the distance, louder in Sherlock's mind as John begins to lose control, shaking under Sherlock's hands and his own hands twisting frantically around the detective's dark curls, Sherlock mercilessly moving faster and the heat and pressure rising until John seems to come undone, a quiet cry of agony and ecstasy as he falls into momentary oblivion.

It _is_ only momentary, as Sherlock feels hands pulling him up towards John's chest, his legs spread either side of John's sweat-sheened thighs – obscene as it is beautiful, he pictures them as they would look to an observer and feels himself pushing his arousal up by another notch. But when John's breathing has begun to regulate and he feels those hands stroke insistently, reciprocating, he shakes his head and utters the first word in what seems like hours.

"Don't."

John stops, frowns up at him guardedly. Sherlock is suddenly wary, the uninhibited actions of moments before forgotten immediately.

"Let's go to sleep, John," Sherlock says, his voice suddenly harder than he would have liked. John's face registers first hurt, followed swiftly by confusion and then studied nonchalance. He says nothing, but nods equably and pulls the blanket that drapes over the edge of the couch, manoeuvring Sherlock so that they are lying, legs interlinked, heads opposite ends of the sofa. Even as their bodies return to a normal temperature, their breathing slow and measured, neither of them says goodnight.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sherlock wakes, he isn't particularly alarmed by his residence on the sofa; he has spent many a night here, thinking, mulling problems over, twisting them this way and that until sleep inevitably took hold and dragged him under. It is John's poker-straight back - facing the kettle, hair rumpled in a way that looks so _obvious_ in broad daylight – that panics him. He mentally runs through the previous evening; words like _impulsive _and _confused_ supply themselves helpfully, floating over a tableau of messy, human, emotional interaction. It's not the kind of thing Sherlock usually thinks about and his brain is humming with the need for caffeine; however, John is occupying the space in the kitchen with his silence and Sherlock thinks privately that he would rather ask Mycroft over for tea than have to confront the unquantifiable chaos that lies untouched between them.

Sherlock begins to wonder how to begin explaining to John, how to proceed in this most domestic of situations, when he isn't at all sure that last night wasn't some kind of hallucination, when John rudely brings the situation to a head by placing a cup of coffee on the table in front of Sherlock and pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Coughing nervously, Sherlock picks up the cup and studies it – _coffee, normal and usual, nothing confusing here, _he thinks gratefully – before saying shortly, "Thank you."

John almost winces at Sherlock's tone and he regrets it immediately, but he isn't sure how to qualify any of the previous evening's actions and especially not before a large amount of caffeine, and so he takes a substantial mouthful and studied his knees (_a small splinter sticking out of the knee – oh, from the floorboards. Oh. _– he coughs again).

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, Sherlock." John says quietly, desperately, and Sherlock doesn't know what to make of this so he allows it to sit there for a moment. John looks as though he has been winded, his head bowed and his breath shallow, a hint of a hitch in his voice. If nothing else, it confuses Sherlock further. Whatever John was apologising for, he looked awfully sorry for it, and Sherlock feels a twist in his stomach of – pity?

"It's... quite alright." Sherlock says, tentatively, unsure of what sin he is absolving John, who looks with tortured eyes up at Sherlock and says, in a rush, "I just – I was caught up in what was happening and I didn't think... that I might be pushing you too far. I didn't think. I'm... really, really sorry. About the whole thing." It's typical John – heartbreakingly honest, sincere.

Sherlock cocks his head to one side, almost quizzical, but John's head is bowed in shame and doesn't offer anything further. There are several ways Sherlock could categorise how he had felt as he had melted John into wordless oblivion last night – _powerful, really quite aroused _and _intrigued_ spring to mind – but _pressured_ or _coerced _do not fit into his mental version of events. The fact that John feels as though he has shattered Sherlock's virtue in some way is almost amusing.

"John," Sherlock says, his voice as matter-of-fact as he can make it, sitting in only a blanket in front of the only friend he has and with whom he happened to have spent the night on his sofa, naked, "Last night was – well, I don't usually do that kind of thing with anybody, as you know. But I certainly didn't feel pressured into it – or," and he realises this is true as it comes out of his mouth, "regret it in any way. It was interesting."

He realises that the words are hardly a ringing endorsement, but he hasn't yet allowed himself time to look more closely at the fact that he is sexually attracted to someone, not least that the someone in question is John. John looks just as wretched.

"You just... pulled away. And went to sleep." he says, in a tone that suggests Sherlock had run screaming from the room.

"I was tired, John." Sherlock says, softening his voice. John looks so wracked with guilt that Sherlock feels an unfamiliar stab of affection for his endlessly good heart, so transparent in comparison with his own. John blinks.

"You were tired." he repeats, rubbing his eyes in confusion. Sherlock nods, studying his coffee again. He is fully aware of why he had stopped John, but to explain would surely be futile. Everything that created that spike of adrenaline, that pure rush, for Sherlock – the cases, the drugs – became an obsession, something that occupied his brain and clamoured for attention, seeking more and more and never allowing him a moment's rest. Poised last night on the edge of knife-sharp arousal, he felt the receptors of his brain prickling with that feeling, the sheer need, for John. He couldn't allow himself to become so hopelessly, embarrassingly desperate for someone's attention and he couldn't imagine how they would work together once John had grown tired of Sherlock's grasping, desperate need for him – _no_, Sherlock thinks, firmly, _this is too dangerous, let it go. _

"Yes, John. It was – a long day." And his phone trills excitedly, the tone specifically for Lestrade and therefore – _thank you, a distraction – _a new case. He flips it open, refusing to look any longer at John's expression, which is half disappointment and half utter incomprehension. "Double murder in Finsbury Park. Uncertain cause of death but probably poison. Coming?"

He walks, blanketed, to his bedroom and begins to dress, unsure whether John would follow or whether he would sit, tea in hand and confusion written across his features, all day. When he reaches the hallway again, however, John is ready to leave. He flashes Sherlock a smile that is both unsure and hopeful, and Sherlock's stomach churns for a second with – for the umpteenth time in two days – the sheer weight of responsibility for John's heart. He says nothing of the sort, and – business as usual – gestures John out into the street, resolving to act as though nothing has changed.


	12. Chapter 12

Lestrade's facial expression is so often a mixture of wryly amused and uncomprehending when confronted with Sherlock that the great detective has begun to suspect that is, in fact, his default facial setting, much like Donovan permanently looks as though she has ingested something from the fridge at 221B and Mycroft looks perpetually hungry. However, the expression he is wearing today, as they stand in the front yard of a small terraced house in Finsbury Park, is neither amused nor uncomprehending.

In fact, he looks positively knowing. Sherlock scowls. _What is he smiling at?_

"Hello, boys." Lestrade grins. "You look cheerful, the pair of you."

John is wearing an expression of abject neutrality, which Sherlock somehow dislikes more than when he looks annoyed - in response, Sherlock is sulking, his bottom lip forced out slightly. There was no conversation during the taxi ride over, seven inches of car seat and a couple of days of uncharted territoty between them. Sherlock isn't even sure if he can focus on this crime scene; although he has three – four, actually – ideas already, they seem unfocused and less pressing than ..._this_. John's presence. He is acutely aware that something has changed between them and yet, one sexual act aside, he isn't precisely sure how to describe what that is.

"We're fine." Sherlock answers Lestrade shortly, before realising he's answered for them both. He flicks what he hopes is a surreptitious glance at John to see if he has noticed and – _of course he's observant when I don't want him to be –_ he is half-smiling in a way that suggests he most definitely has. Sherlock turns his attention back to Lestrade who is regarding them both with mild amusement.

"What are you smirking at, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asks waspishly. Lestrade breaks out into a wicked smile.

"Nothing. Both bodies are upstairs – John, do you want to take a look? Apparent strangulation, but god knows what with, funny ligature ma -"

"Curtain tie." Sherlock sighs. John rolls his eyes and steps under the police tape into the house. Lestrade smiles again.

"Had a lover's tiff?" He says gaily, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.

The case is solved within three hours. It takes a lot longer than normal – Sherlock finds himself looking at John's eyebrow and noticing the tiniest scar that he cannot possibly have missed before, or firing poisonous looks at a new forensics assistant who _gazes_ at John as he scrutinises the corpses before him with expert eyes. It was, of course, the curtain tie, causing Donovan to mutter 'I swear he just _guesses _these things', something that Sherlock would perhaps have taken grim satisfaction in had he not been distracted by John's inscrutable face. Ordinarily as easily read as a well-thumbed bedtime story, it has become shuttered in a way that Sherlock finds extremely exasperating. He isn't sure what grounds John has to be annoyed – he certainly wasn't annoyed last night, he thinks, and then immediately blinks to get that image out of his mind while he's in a taxi – but he is displaying a combination of petulance and worry that leaves any other options completely hidden to Sherlock. Given that it has opened a number of interesting avenues to him recently, Sherlock tries the direct approach.

"Why are you acting like I've offended you in some way?" he says, noting the look the taxi driver throws in the rear view mirror, one that says 'no domestics in the cab'. John's teeth clench minutely, and, looking at the expanse of London traffic ahead and correctly deducing he has no means of escape from this line of questioning, takes a deep breath.

"Do we have to have this conversation now?" he replies, but his tone suggests he's hedging, already resigned to it.

"Well, no." Sherlock says, "But last night I think my actions made my feelings perfectly clear – unless I'm imagining the splinters in my knees- "

"Jesus, Sherlock!" The taxi driver's eyes are burning at them through the mirror now, which Sherlock fleetingly thinks is possibly unwise in an area so full of Boris Johnson's infernal bicycles. John looks appalled and entirely mortified. "We're in a _taxi_, for God's sake."

Sherlock sighs long-sufferingly and settles back into his seat. After a few moments during which the driver loses interest, John mutters, sotto voce, "You didn't, actually."

Sherlock sits up slightly. "Didn't what?"

"Make anything clear, last night. At all." His eyes are fixed on the seat in front.

"Even though I..." – a warning glance tinged with red – "Oh, for goodness sake. I told you I didn't want you to leave, and then _that_ happened. I don't really understand how much clearer it could have been."

Sherlock's voice is still a few decibels higher than John looks comfortable with, and the detective takes satisfaction in watching him squirm as he is accidentally outed to a fascinated London cab driver.

"You said, basically, that I'm convenient to have around, then you jumped on me, and then when I tried to reciprocate you acted like I had anthrax." John's voice is calm but there's an undercurrent of confusion that begs Sherlock to run a hand down the back of the sandy hair. The idea unnerves him slightly.

"I told you I didn't want you to leave. I don't want you to leave," Sherlock says, desperately willing John to understand what that means. Then, ruffled in spite of himself, "I didn't act like you _had anthrax_. I was tired."

John ignores the first part of this little speech entirely. "So you said. But normally in that kind of situation, you don't just ...break things off halfway through."

It's lucky, really, that they're in standstill traffic now, as the cab driver is riveted.

"Normally? Do you fall for your flatmates often, John?" Sherlock attempts levity. It falls painfully flat in this confined space, and the added pressure of acknowledging John's feelings makes Sherlock's usual baritone sound strained.

"Just the one, so far." John mutters heavily.

"Good." Sherlock replies levelly, and looks, deliberately, at John. His face appears to register Sherlock's meaning far too slowly for his liking, and suddenly the traffic seems absolutely vile. It's going dark and he wants to get John Watson home before he loses his nerve.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They spent the next thirteen minutes in shallow-breathed silence, Sherlock's lone word a declaration of intent that somehow demanded no other conversation. John shoves a banknote at the driver and has his key in the door before he can offer any change, and Sherlock follows, fluidly moving up the stairs with the intention of concealing their return from a tea-and-chitchat-wielding Mrs Hudson. John doesn't meet his eyes until they are several feet from the couch and suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, forcing him backwards into a sitting position and – it seems - simultaneously covering his mouth. John glares down at Sherlock with a fierceness that makes Sherlock feel slightly seasick in the best possible manner.

"Don't say a word for a minute, understand?"

Sherlock nods, John's skin on his mouth clouding what little judgement he seemed to still possess.

"I'm going to give you ten seconds to explain what on earth we're doing, in simple words if you're capable, and then –" he appears to think better of whatever mysterious promise was coming next – ".. no, go on. Speak. Clearly. Be honest ."

He removes his hand, but his face is still unsettlingly close. Sherlock coughs, once, and then says, as quickly as possible, because John's eyes hold promise and threat in a completely fascinating combination and Sherlock would swear to having written the Bible if he could just get him to _do _something, "I want you. Now. And I don't want you to leave because I think I love you."

There is, to John's credit, barely a second of stunned silence. Then John says, in what Sherlock can only think (in his post-confessional blur) is a growl, "Interesting. Try not to fall asleep this time, because I'm going to be a while."

And then there are hands, dragging his curls, and John's fingers tracing his mouth roughly, and John begins to unravel Sherlock. He can feel it as he watches John, obscene and divine at once, his mouth moving over Sherlock as though he is trying to force every last breath from beneath his ribs, a ragged curse to every possible deity from Sherlock's gasping mouth. Sherlock feels his grip on reality slipping away in a terrifying, spinning sensation, the loss of control only marginally less alien to him than the idea of stopping would be. And only when his hands clench involuntarily around John's hair does John look up and recognise a man who is as equally scared as he is utterly wanting, and then John says firmly, "Sherlock. Look at me. Look. At me. Let go." and then the high begins to peak and Sherlock does.


	13. Chapter 13

((Author's note: none of my work is beta'd – and most of it is written at 2am! So if anyone wants to beta I'd love it, and also I thought I should let you know there's some fairly substantial hurt/comfort coming up after this chapter. Oh, and if you've reviewed or even read this, I LOVE you :D))

It could be the beginning of a new and boundless era of exploration for Sherlock Holmes. One thing he particularly enjoys (although his senses are being bombarded with new things to enjoy) is the look of surprise that John wears when he realises Sherlock isn't the wilting flower John had assumed.

"You're – you're _not _a virgin?" John says at Sherlock's exasperated "I _have _done this before, you know," made during one of their 3AM scrambles for skin and sweat that end in John's chaste hands prolonging the wait for what Sherlock feels – if he remembers correctly - is probably inevitable. And John looks nonplussed in a way that Sherlock is too smug to be offended by so Sherlock purses his lips and replies, "No, John. So you don't have to be so cautious with me. I'm not made of glass."

Since that one, admittedly explosive, blowjob on the sofa after the case in North London, John and Sherlock have not acted like a couple. They are aware of a softening round the edges, an attempt – on John's part, mostly – not to argue, but it is during only the night times that John pads over to the sofa and kisses Sherlock gently and wordlessly, treating him like fine china as he works his doctor's hands over Sherlock's prone frame. Sherlock is beginning to feel frustratingly as though he is being pandered to.

"I just assumed," John replies guilelessly, eyebrows still a fraction higher than normal. Sherlock raises his own in response.

"Well, you assumed wrongly." Sherlock's comeback is without accusation. Everyone assumes, after all, that having managed to avoid grappling with either sex in darkened corners at the Christmas parties that Lestrade forces him to attend each year, that he is simply not experienced in that area. And he isn't; several sexual encounters, all disappointing, all eclipsed even by these comparatively tame evenings spent savouring Dr Watson's diligent attentions. And yet John always stops short of committing himself entirely, in a way that implies he is protecting Sherlock's innocence, and Sherlock – well, Sherlock wouldn't even have the terminology, beyond the strictly medical, to suggest such a thing. There are very few words in these nocturnal meetings, something for which Sherlock is inexplicably grateful.

John's answering smile, slow and intrigued, suggests that he is pleased about Sherlock's response, although Sherlock fails to see why it matters either way.

"So you don't want me to be gentle with you, then?" John says, a sliver of steel in his tone. The threat of it makes the hairs on Sherlock's arms stand on end, but he isn't sure what to do with that information and so he focuses on John's hands instead. Thick and big for a man of his height, they have been deceptively gentle with Sherlock, and yet they look capable – are capable, Sherlock remembers – of enacting much crueller pleasures. Sherlock's mind falters at this and so he replies, as smoothly as he can, "Do with me as you wish, Doctor."

John isn't smiling now. In fact, he's looking at Sherlock, measuring him up, coming to a decision that he doesn't seem in a hurry to voice. He nods once, a conclusion having apparently been reached, and then he switches the light off. Sherlock lies beside him, not entirely sure what has just happened, and finds he isn't averse to the idea of John sleeping in his room. He normally leaves Sherlock's room eventually, under gentle pretence of making tea or having work early; Sherlock is rarely offended, finding John's presence like background noise filling his inner sanctum and upsetting the ebb and flow of his night-time thoughts. Tonight, however, he lies as still as he can manage, and listens to John's breathing, and recognises that in several ways, a line has been crossed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He spends several hours before sunrise researching the poisonous qualities of various common plants and their effects on the body, only to succumb to fitful sleep only fifteen minutes before John leaves for work. He is, therefore, wide awake when John returns later in the evening, his face a calm mask that usually indicates a particularly hellish day in the surgery.

Sherlock is leaning against the fridge, contemplating whether or not he would be in the firing range should someone decide to stake out the opposite flat (stranger things have happened), when John approaches and kisses him in a way that suggests he is just as frustrated as Sherlock is mildly surprised to find himself at John's stern expression. John's fingers link themselves in a light but decisive grip around one of Sherlock's wrists.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks, perturbed. He is less concerned that John has encircled his broad wrist with just one of his hands – in fact, the idea appeals to him for reasons he isn't entirely sure of – and more with the sudden departure from containing their exploratory meetings to the middle of the night.

"Stop talking." John says, pinning Sherlock's arm against the humming plastic. Sherlock has heard this sentence from John countless times in a myriad of tones – exasperated, usually – and characteristically decides to ignore it.

"John –" he begins in mild protest, but John shoots him a look that is pure authority and says, his voice barely above a whisper and yet icily hard, "Do as you're told, Holmes."

The effect on Sherlock is undeniable and immediate, and his knees suddenly appear to have forgotten they exist. He nods mutely, understanding and uncomprehending at once, as John leans in and bites Sherlock's neck. It's hard enough to hurt but not so harsh that the promise of something else underneath has Sherlock rock-hard. Pulling away with an entirely confusing kiss of the already bruising skin, John studies Sherlock's face for a second before he relaxes slightly. He nods, a satisfied glint in his eye, and then drops Sherlock's arm and moves to the kettle, slipping incongruously back into his usual post-work routine.

Sherlock observes his wrist, alabaster with a red ring where John's fingers have been, and breathes out heavily. He isn't sure he's ever been this painfully aroused, and he would take amusement in the fact that a five-foot-nine man has caused it except for the fact that this five-foot-nine man also appears to be capable of killing him with his bare hands.

"You said," John speaks suddenly, not turning to face Sherlock, "that I can do what I like with you. So I'm going to. And you'll do as you're told."

The tone is conversational but there is no doubt in Sherlock's mind (wildly collating data: _John _would_ have a dominant side, wouldn't he, military background_) that he means every word he says. Concentrating on dealing with not only kissing his flatmate in the kitchen but the fact that this flatmate also apparently has grander plans for him, he forgets to reply.

"_Yes, John._" John prompts harshly. Sherlock jumps for a second, mind standing back to attention. Was he really expecting Sherlock to repeat that? He feels momentarily disoriented by the idea of it and then realises he is still very aroused. _Interesting. _He decides to let this unusual line of conversation play out.

"Yes, John." He repeats meekly, wearing his subjugation like an unfamiliar coat. Obeying anybody's orders – from his mother to the British Government – is something akin to personal hell, but something about ramrod stiffness of John's back causes Sherlock's stomach to tighten. He is rewarded by a cup of tea placed on the table in front of him and an affectionate rub of Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective is left with all the questions as John settles down with a newspaper.


	14. Chapter 14

From then on, Sherlock learns a new language. It is the language of John's facial expressions – funny, how he'd always thought of them as clues to a case or otherwise generally unreadable, but on John they spoke entire novels – and of body language. John began to exercise control over Sherlock in infinitesimal ways, just to see his eyes widen with unusually slow understanding.

They are standing two feet apart in the living room, surveying each other with a kind of coy, yet gruff, pride as they dressed for Mycroft's dreaded birthday meal. John hadn't asked, but he suspected it was his fortieth, the amount of fuss that Mother Holmes had been making, and so they were dressed appropriately – John in a dark grey suit, Sherlock in black with his purple shirt beneath. Sherlock is fully dressed, unable to dawdle as always, yet John has only his suit trousers on, his shirt unbuttoned.

"Fasten my buttons." he says, his eyes looking steadily up at Sherlock. Weeks ago – was it only weeks? Sherlock wonders – he would have scoffed, tossed some snide remark about John's ability to shoot a man through a pane of glass dead on and wasn't he capable of fastening his _own clothes for God's sake_, but now he hesitates for only a moment. The tone of John's voice, the unwavering , expectant gaze – this is non-negotiable. And so, he starts at John's stomach, which barely flinches at the chill of Sherlock's long fingers working deftly around the black fabric. Moving up to the chest, taking in with unabashed admirating the light scatter of hair, Sherlock feels like mouth turning to sandpaper and an inability to look John square in the eye. John, of course, notices this.

"Look at me while you're doing it."

His tone is not angry, nor forceful. He knows Sherlock will obey, even if Sherlock doesn't know why. And so he lifts his eyes almost warily, his fingers missing the next buttonhole without his eyes to guide him – his knuckle skims John's skin, which seems very warm against his own. John stiffens for a moment but says nothing. He continues to button, slowly and methodically, until he reaches John's neck, the curve of it reminding Sherlock of pieces of music he thought he'd forgotten. They are face to face, Sherlock standing far closer than is necessary given the length of his arms, and John is still looking at him with that serious, steady face. He leans towards John, millimetres at most, and instantly John places a rigid palm on Sherlock's shoulder, preventing him from going further. His gaze is no longer merely serious – it is one of disapproval.

"Greedy." he chastises, and pushes Sherlock away, fastening his own top button. Sherlock swallows, feeling as though he has been robbed of something exquisite, aching to finish this oddly entrancing task.

"You'll learn," John says, the conversational tone returning, his face now turned to the mirror as he loops his tie around his neck. Sherlock thinks he is beginning to understand the rules.

The meal drags, John behaving – disappointingly, in Sherlock's own befuddled opinion – entirely normally. He is charming with Sherlock's mother, endures Mycroft's accurate yet inappropriate jibes about their blossoming – well, whatever it is, and smiles at Sherlock once over the cheeseboard with what looks like unadulterated happiness and warms Sherlock's ears. He has an easy charm about him, Sherlock notices, with everyone from waitresses to Sherlock's peevish aunts, and yet he beams at nobody like he does Sherlock. The thought makes Sherlock feel slightly seasick.

Back at 221B, Sherlock flinging his suit jacket and shoes into a corner of the room unlit by the television, John pours two glasses of brandy and gestures at the sofa. Flicking a longing glance at his armchair, Sherlock sits awkwardly beside John, who lets his knees fall apart and his head back onto the cushion, utterly relaxed.

"You can unbutton my shirt now," he says, and Sherlock feels a now-familiar tightening in his stomach, sickening lust at the orders of this sandy-haired mystery. Yet the tone is not quite as authoritarian as earlier, and so although he begins as he was told, reversing his earlier path and starting at John's taut neck flung over the sofa's edge, he speaks softly.

"What is this, John?" It pains him to ask, and it tells in his voice, tighter than normal. One button comes apart. John shifts slightly but doesn't lift his head.

"You're unbuttoning my shirt. Have you lost your deductive powers?" he replies, but the tease has an undercurrent of confusion. It is an alarmingly vague question from the man who demands precision.

Another button, slower. "We are – well, sleeping together. Sometimes. And I told you I loved you. And now you're ... ordering me around. Which is - good, but..." These words he says as stiffly as he knows how, determined not to show weakness. There are some rules he hasn't learned yet. John opens his eyes, although still doesn't move.

"Yes." Another button, and a thumb resting lightly on John's chest for a second, unwilling to continue before he knows where he is heading. "And here we are, you undressing me on the sofa," John adds, lightly. Sherlock withdraws his hands.

"Don't make light of this, John," and something hurt in his tone finally brings the doctor's head back upright. Sherlock's voice has never sounded like this, needing any reassurance.

"I'm – not. I don't know what this is either." John says warily. Sherlock's face falls slightly and John feels immensely responsible. "I mean," he tries again, "- do we have to put a name to this? You know how I feel about you -" _I adore you, I could fuck you every morning until forever, you made me remember how to study every detail of a persons' face and commit it to memory_, John thinks.

This appears to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock stands and paces for a few seconds before seating himself in his armchair, several stretched feet of miscommunication away, his hands steepled to his forehead.

"Do you know why I don't have relationships, John?"

"No." He has never asked. Assumed there would be no response. It is only since he realised with a jolt of absurd longing that he is accidentally in love with Sherlock that John has given much thought to his relationships, or lack thereof.

"There was somebody, once." Sherlock says in a tone that knocks John's stomach, "He was – I became obsessed. Like I am with my work, he was everything. And then he left. It is not an experiment I wish to repeat."

Rational thought leaves John for a second as he imagines his fist connecting with the cheekbone of a man who could leave Sherlock Holmes, and he is filled with a desperate need to comfort that he knows will be rebuffed. He then thinks, panicked, that he is being bestowed with an enormous responsibility. He decodes Sherlock's statement.

"You don't want to be left?"

"I couldn't. No drug could numb you leaving. I am not trying to be melodramatic, John. But I mean that if this is – a _phase_," he spits this phrase and John feels bile in his throat, the word sounding parroted from the mouth of a bigoted acquaintance from Sherlock's past, "- or you are merely trying to _get over_ a brief fascination with me, then I must ask you to stop it now."

John finds himself choked up, absurdly and without warning. He is torn deeply between everything he knew, life before Sherlock, and his life now – boundaries crosses, sexualities entirely ignored, the absolute ache in his stomach as he wakes to the sight of Sherlock's hipbones and stomach and loose limbs, the giddying thrill of lowering his voice and watching Sherlock's eyes blow wide as he obeys John's bidding. He knows the next few words could make all the difference and as he takes a deep breath, prepares to make a promise he's almost sure he can keep, Sherlock turns his face towards John with eyes wider than saucers, open and pleading. It wrenches John open and leaves only one response.

"Yes," John says, automatically, in response to nothing and everything, getting to his feet and crossing the carpet. He kneels beside the chair and holds Sherlock's stare, urgently.

"Yes, I will be here. I won't leave you, Sherlock." He is sure now; the final piece of this puzzle falling into place. Sherlock needing him, looking with pleading eyes – it causes an ache in his throat, but it soothes the nagging fear at the back of his mind, the one he had discussed with his therapist so many times – "_Sherlock doesn't need anybody. He doesn't let himself,"_.

At John's words, Sherlock's shoulders loosen and he crawls, like a child, onto the floor, curled round John's knees, and breathes, "You make it quiet inside my head."


End file.
